Chapter Text
Aziraphale felt it when it happened. A tearing, gut wrenching agonising pain that stopped him in his tracks, he didn’t know why he knew, but he knew. Something had happened to Crowley. Tears sprang unbidden from his eyes and he cast about helplessly as he stood in the street, his mind a maelstrom of confusion. He didn’t know where Crowley was, only that he was in trouble.
He ran then. He was not one to run generally but he ran. Back to the bookshop, the nearest phone he knew as he’d never capitulated yet to the mobile phone fad that in his timescale had only just sprung up. Gasping through the door, hands shaking, whole body shaking as he urgently dialled the demon’s number on his old rotary phone, heart hammering in his chest, possibilities whirling through his mind. “I’m sorry, your call cannot be connected, please hang up and try again.”
Sobbing, he redialled. Again, and again, and again. “Crowley, Crowley, please, please, please be alright.”
He knew he wasn’t.
After how many redials he didn’t know, he was running again, out of the door and sprinting down the road toward Crowley’s flat – thankfully not too far from his shop, a twelve minute walk on a good day. He stumbled, jostled humans, not caring, breath ragged in his throat.
The door to the exclusive apartment block was controlled by entry buttons linked to each flat, it didn’t matter, and it opened for the angel regardless, as did Crowley’s front door once he had got there, breath burning in his lungs, heart making a determined attempt to escape his chest. They could control their human corporations to disregard hunger, need for oxygen and so forth, but in times of panic, it was easy to lose control and the base animal instincts could overwhelm their ability to control their bodies.
“Crowely! Crowley where are you?” He ran from room to room in the echoing, empty apartment. Nothing. Nothing out of place, no demon, no signs of a struggle. Whatever had happened, hadn’t happened here. He didn’t know what to do, where else to look. What haunts Crowley may have that he could search first. He hadn’t even noticed if the Bentley was outside. He ran to the window and scanned the street below, nothing. He collapsed at that point, knees refusing to cooperate in the business of supporting his trembling body any longer, he slid down the window, its surface icy cold against his forehead as he gazed out over the city, helpless and not knowing where to start.
He sobbed. Broken, soul-wrenching sobs of loss and grief, he may have screamed, he didn’t recall. What felt like an eternity later, his throat was raw and hoarse. Snot dribbled down his face, his eyes burned form the tears. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that something bad had happened to the demon.
He wandered again through the apartment, eyes taking in the sparseness, the austerity of decoration. He found himself in the doorway to the bedroom, gazing at the empty bed. He hesitantly approached it, sat on the edge, and reached for the pillow, drawing it to his face, to smell the lingering scent left there by Crowley, holding it tight, tears once again burning his eyes.
He left.
He garnered a few curious glances as he staggered back to the bookshop in a daze, still clutching the pillow in one tightly fisted hand. When a cycle courier whizzed by a little too close for comfort he drew the pillow closer to him protectively and glared at the confused woman.
“Crowley” he whispered, he didn’t know how many times, finding himself somehow back in the bookshop, on the sofa, cuddling the pillow to his chest, his nose buried in the top of it, inhaling that scent again and again. “Crowley.” He began sobbing again.
He began scouring the streets, walking, walking, ceaselessly, day and night without pause for rest or sustenance – he needed neither. His muscles ached in protest, he ignored them. After three days he had filed a police report for a missing person, then he realised that the Bentley would also be a target to look for. He used his supernatural powers of persuasion to entrance a friendly older police officer to assist him. A call went out across the capital for all units to be on the alert for the distinctive Bentley.
It only took a day for it to be found, parked safely in an underground car park near a shopping centre. Aziraphale stood before it, finding no clues. Crowley had presumably parked it here before going to do something, and never came back to it. He ran his fingers over the paintwork gently, feeling for anything. He felt loss, abandonment, confusion, and realised that it stemmed from the vehicle itself. It knew Crowley had gone, it didn’t know where either, and it felt alone.
A small light flickered on inside, catching the angel’s attention, and through the closed door he heard, quietly, a familiar strain begin on the stereo. Queen’s “Too much love will kill you”. The sad refrain the car’s only method of communication with the angel. He broke down into tears again at that point, head resting on the roof, still at a loss.
He left the car, and continued his patrol of the London streets, face haggard, clothes growing looser on his frame as the weeks passed, blisters ignored on his feet. He’d finally given in and bought a cheap mobile phone purely so he could give the number to the police officer who was so kindly helping him. He had explained that Crowley was an orphan with no family, and that they had been best friends since school, that they were the only friends the other had, that he was the closest thing to family that Crowley had. His angelic persuasion pushing the officer to keep on the case. He forgot to charge it, it didn’t matter – it remained fully charged regardless. Fully charged and silent.
He occasionally returned to the bookshop only to sit and think and hug the pillow close, a small miracle ensuring that the scent would never fade, so he could breathe it in, whispering only the name “Crowley” to himself, over and over again, until the restlessness grew too much to bear and he was out again, walking the streets, searching.